


Counting the Days

by kentucka



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Hallucinations, M/M, Prison, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-24
Updated: 2005-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During imprisonment, solitary doesn't really mean alone for Archie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting the Days

**Holes**

Patches, where the raw stones were exposed as the render broke away, fine as sand, and he could dig new holes with his bare fingers. He’d bore them in, watching the sand, which once had been part of his cell’s walls, trickling down and forming a little heap. He’d continue until his nailbeds were bloody, until the pain was replaced by numbness throughout the fingertips.

 _You need tools._

It was difficult, to dig without feeling his fingers, but he went on anyways.

For dinner, a wooden spoon lay beside the bowl of porridge, which his callous hands refused to hold.

The holes never were big enough to even be noticed by the guards.

*

 **Walls**

He would start re-counting the cracks.

 _Talk to me._

He’d count the big ones first, then every single line, however fine and hard to find.

 _You’re going insane, and you damn well know it._

He regarded the list a previous inmate had started. Ran his index finger across the fourteen indents, finding the last one shallow, uneven. Had that man gone mad as well? Or had he been executed that day?

Crawling on all fours across the room, right through _him_ , Archie carved another line into the wall. The four hundredth, but he did not feel like celebrating. Not at all like celebrating. He broke down in the dirt, sobbing, half afraid that what he was feeling was the beginning of another fit. But the tears started to spill - soothing, in a way.  
Archie did not move when _he_ brushed hair and tears from his face.

*

 **Bars**

“You’re not here.”  
His fingers wrapped around the bars, his face pressed between them. The air outside smelt fresh and salty, and when he closed his eyes, he could pretend to be back at sea.  
“I’m not here either.”

 _He_ was quiet, but a hand settled against Archie’s back, keeping his mind from slipping too far away.

*

 **Light**

At noon, it was still dark inside, the rays of an unmerciful Spanish sun almost parallel to his window, looking west. It would take another hour for the light to penetrate the room far enough, so Archie could sit in its glow fully. He’d given up on trying to stand, as he’d given up on food. The air grew stifling, dry and full of dust, but he allowed his throat no relief.

 _Would you like a cell with its window looking north? It would be cooler._

“No,” he rasped, and tried to turn his head away when _he_ forced his hand to hold the bowl of water. But with each passing day (five hundred fifty eight) his resistance grew weaker. Finally, he drank.

*

 **Offerings**

“You don’t know what I want.” Nothing more than a whisper.

 _You want to see your family again._

The shadow loomed over him, but even the full moon shining through the barred window could not reveal any details of the face. _His_ voice echoed in his head, and Archie was fairly certain it had ever been only there.

“No,” in a breath. The cot was still warm from the sun, which had set hours ago. Perhaps it was just him, having a fever again. A shudder ran through him, as if in answer.

 _You want to flee, or be set free._

“No.” Stronger this time.

 _You want to go home._

Archie only shook his head, becoming desperate as memories from his childhood overwhelmed him.

 _Not there, fool._

*

 **Surrender**

The fever had worsened. The guards had made him eat, and drink, for a while. But now it seemed they had given up on him, rather willing to let him die and be done with him. _He_ never gave up, though.

 _Sodomite._

It sounded like an endearment from _him_. A caress, like the hand wiping sweat from his forehead. Then again, sin was _his_ dearest.

 _You want Horatio._

“Yes.” No sense in denying what could be read off him like off the page of an open book. Archie rolled over in the dust, picking up a sharp stone, hardly able to gather the strength to make the groove.

 _He_ laughed shortly, in triumph.

Archie’s eyes flicked up over the scratches, trying to count, trying to understand. He never turned around to see if _he_ was still there.

(Six hundred and sixty six.)


End file.
